Part 1: The Mansion Incident
by half-brain
Summary: (Making my own, slightly modified version of the game that started it all) The elite police task force STARS has been chomping at the bit to get their hands on their first murder case, a series of cannibalistic killings in the nearby Arklay mountains. But when the Chief of Police finally assigns them to the task force, it may turn out to be much more than they bargained for.
1. Chapter 1

The hot, afternoon sun beat down on the Raccoon Police Department parking lot, causing heat to rise from the blacktop in shimmering waves. Jill Valentine squinted and pushed a strand of brown hair out of her face as she stepped out of her beat-up hatchback, wishing for fall to come. Summers in Raccoon City, she had found, were a lot like summers in her hometown of Chicago – unbearably warm and muggy. Jill hurried toward the shelter of the RPD's air-conditioned interior. A dark blue Mustang rumbled into the lot as she reached the door. It was Chris Redfield, her partner on RPD Special Tactics and Rescue Service, or STARS.

Chris killed the engine, simultaneously cutting off John Fogerty's dry voice on the radio. Jill waited for him at the entry, and he strode towards her with a thoughtful scowl.

"What's up? You're making that face again."

"What face?"

"The one you always make when something's bugging you."

He shook his head. "It's nothing. Well, nothing I can seem to place. Something just seems off about this case."

She assumed he was speaking about the Victory Lake case. Over the past couple months, a string of grisly killings, animal attacks, and disappearances had struck the northern part of Raccoon and the surrounding foothills of the Arklay Mountains. People disappearing in a forest was not unheard of, nor were increased animal attacks in growing urban sprawls, but two things stuck out. First, the sudden frequency and apparent viciousness of the attacks. Second – and far more alarming – was that in all six murder cases the victims were partially devoured; and as the "cannibal" nickname would suggest, the bite patterns were unquestionably human. STARS had joined Homicide a little less than two weeks ago in an attempt by chief of police Irons to speed up the resolution of the case. So far they had made little headway.

"What isn't off about this case, Chris? I mean, cannibals? Strange creatures coming out at night to feed on human flesh? Sounds like some low-budget thriller."

"Cannibals aren't as uncommon as you might think," he replied, his tone of voice indicating he was trying to deflect her argument. He obviously didn't want to elaborate, which she found odd. "I've just got a bad feeling."

She decided not to press the issue.

They made their way through the extravagant building's narrow, impractical hallways to the STARS office on the second floor, shortcutting through the evidence room. Sergeant Carlsen greeted them as they passed and continued digging through one of the small, metal drawers. The police department had once been an art museum, and before that city hall, and God could only guess what else. Jill suspected maybe it had been a mansion, albeit a very oddly placed one. Raccoon had been a simple, rural town in the western uplands of Wisconsin until the mid-eighties when the Umbrella Corporation had moved in. The huge pharmaceutical conglomerate showed up suddenly, wanting to create a research facility in town. Not only did they set up shop, but Umbrella helped fund a series of major public works projects proposed by then-mayor Michael Warren. Ever since, Raccoon City had continued to grow at a steady rate as Umbrella pulled in more and more workers, expanding the demand for other services.

The door was open, and voices spilled into the quiet hallway. Jill heard Joe Frost, STARS Alpha Team's mechanic, laugh at some unheard joke. Chris went in first. The rest of Alpha sat at their cluttered desks, relaxing while waiting for orders on what to do. Joe had his feet propped up, leaning back in his gray office chair as Brad Vickers, Alpha's pilot and comms guy, absently adjusted a couple knobs on the large radio setup that dominated one corner of the room. Barry was describing- probably for the fourth or fifth time – his hunting trip a couple weekends ago, waving his huge arms around and sending Joe into another fit of mirth. Jill had heard many of his stories, including ones about Chris from back in their Air Force days, but they never seemed to get old. Even Wesker, their usually stoic division leader who sat reading through a precarious stack of reports, couldn't suppress a chuckle.

Bravo Team had been sent out on an initial aerial recon of the lower Arklays just over an hour ago. There was the unfortunate possibility that they may spook the killers into hiding deeper in the forest, but Chief Irons had insisted they not go in blind. Captain Wesker had agreed it was a necessary risk.

"What's the word on Bravo?" Chris asked Brad as he took a seat at his messy desk. Piles of forestry surveys, topographic maps, and half-written reports lay haphazardly scattered across the surface, obscuring a couple pictures from the Air Force and one of him and his sister canoeing.

"Nothing yet. Last check-in was over grid Twenty-Two A fifteen minutes ago. Looked like a campsite. Haven't heard a peep since, although the comms have been a bit unreliable."

Chris nodded before Jill saw the same scowl reappear. He grabbed a can of 7up from one of his desk drawers and popped it open.

Wesker slapped down the report he had presumably just finished. "Everyone ready to get started?" Seeing no objection, he continued. "Has anyone come up with more ideas? I want to be ready for any possibility, no matter how unlikely."

Jill quickly flipped through her folder. "It's not so much a new idea, but I did some more research into cults with similar behavior to our cannibals."

"And?"

"From what I've found, the whole cult angle is growing less and less promising. There's almost always some blatant, deeper pattern or connection between victims in those situations. Unless we're missing it, the only thing these people have in common is that they live in the northern half of the city. Different genders, ages, ethnicities, fields of work, everything. It just doesn't seem to fit."

Barry stroked his short, reddish beard. "Victims of opportunity, maybe?"

"Big maybe, but possible I suppose."

Wesker nodded. "It was a stretch to begin with. Unfortunately we don't have many other theories yet. I just talked to Garrison in homicide and they're still stumped." No one spoke up for a moment. Chris looked like he was going to say something, but stopped. The captain noticed. "Chris, I don't care if your idea sounds ridiculous, ridiculous is all we have right now. Share your thoughts."

"What if…" he tapped the nearly empty pop can, searching for the right words. "What if Umbrella has something to do with this?"

Jill didn't know what she had been expecting Chris to say, but it surely wasn't that. How could Umbrella, the unofficial town benefactors, have anything to do with one of the grisliest murder cases in state history?

"You have a motive?" Wesker asked, looking skeptically at Chris.

"Not exactly. I just think that we should check out every option."

Brad scratched at his ear. "He has a decent point. Even if it isn't Umbrella themselves, maybe we'll turn up something."

"Could even be one of their enemies," Joe offered. "A company doesn't get that big without making a few, and scaring their workers away from one of their biggest research facilities would certainly hurt Umbrella."

"Yeah, but there's a difference between scaring some workers and fourteen overly grotesque murders," reminded Barry. "Sorry guys, but I just don't see any way that could make sense."

Wesker sighed. "Well, I did say _all_ leads, but unfortunately I don't see how we're going to investigate Umbrella without some actual evidence. Especially considering how much of a longshot your theory is."

Chris rummaged through one of his stacks of notes, emerging with a Forest Service map. "Here, from nineteen-eighty-seven. It's no damning evidence by any means, but there is an abandoned estate in the area, built by one of the top Umbrella execs. I figure getting permission to check it out wouldn't cause too much of a fuss. It's abandoned, and the killers could be using it as a hideout."

There was a pause, then Wesker raised an eyebrow and gave a slight nod. "Still a longshot, but maybe it's just enough. I'll have to run it past Irons first, but I think I can twist his arm. He owes me a favor or two."

Jill was a little surprised Wesker had actually gone for it, but she wasn't going to argue. "Captain, you want us to start-"

"What? You're breaking up." It was Brad, the radio headset pressed up against one ear. He fidgeted with a dial, but from the look on his face, it didn't do a whole lot of good. "Bravo Team? Come in, Bravo Team." He stared with squinted eyes at the dial. "Shit. Lost them."

"You catch any of the message?" asked Wesker, rising from his desk.

"Not really. Didn't get their grid. But Rick sounded pretty frantic."

Rick Aiken was Bravo's communications expert, and generally an easygoing guy. If he was freaking out, something was seriously wrong.

"Keep trying to raise them." Jill could hear the strain in his voice. Wesker knew it was bad too. He snatched up the phone from his desk and punched a couple buttons. "Yes. This is Wesker. Tell Irons I'm on my way to his office. We may have an emergency." Wesker slammed the phone down and half-jogged to the door. "Get your gear together and get it to the helipad. Frost, get the helicopter ready, I want to be ready to fly ten minutes ago. Move!"

Jill was up from her seat in a flash, taking the lead down to the armory, Chris and Barry trailing close behind. Their boots thudded down two flights of stairs and into the station's basement. In a moment the lockers were open, and the trio began throwing gear into duffel bags. Barry grabbed his Kevlar vest and tightened it around his massive frame, throwing Chris and Jill theirs. She pulled the bulky vest over her shoulders, zipping it at the front and double-checking the side straps. The damned thing was going to be ridiculously warm, even though they were only wearing short-sleeve shirts beneath them. Jill could already feel it beginning to stifle her. Barry started back up with a duffel full of ammunition and a pair of shotguns.

They worked in silence for a moment as Chris affixed his combat knife to his belt. She thought it was a silly, old holdover from his Special Forces days, but he claimed over and over again it would come in handy eventually. But soon her curiosity got too much. "How did you come up with Umbrella?"

"Long story."

"I'm all ears."

He looked up from the radios he was checking. "Not that kind of long story. There may be more to it than I said upstairs, but it's not something I want to discuss. Just trust me. I'll tell you when we get back."

"Fine, but don't think I won't hold you to that."

Barry came back, and they carried the remaining gear up. Joe was waiting in the troop hold of the old UH-1 and helped them get everything fastened down. The downdraft from the main rotor rustled their hair and tugged at any loose clothing. Joe gave her a hand up into the helicopter.

"Where's Wesker?" she called over the roaring engine.

Joe shrugged. "I dunno! Haven't seen him since he went to talk to Irons!"

As if on cue, the STARS captain stormed onto the helipad, not even bothering to hide the frustration on his face. "Shut it down!" he ordered Joe.

"What!?"

"Shut it down! We aren't going anywhere!"

Joe reached into the cockpit and shut down the engine before turning around and demanding, "What in the hell are you talking about?"

"Irons won't let us check it out unless we get a confirmation that they need help or they miss their deadline."

"That's two hours from now. Their comms could be toast for all we know," reminded Chris.

Wesker took a deep breath and let it out through his nose. "I know. Trust me, I'm just as pissed. Brad's still on the radio. Nothing yet."

Joe leapt down to the concrete. "I ought to give Irons a piece of my mind."

"Frost! You will do nothing of the sort," the captain ordered. "I don't want any of you to talk to Irons without my express permission. I'm still trying to talk some sense into him, and I don't want you or Redfield's hot-headedness getting in my way."

"Then what _can _we do?"

"Wait. Quietly. Preferably somewhere close, and I want everyone ready to move on a moment's notice."


	2. Chapter 2

Well, here's the next chapter. Most of the rough draft is done, so hopefully this should go a little quicker. Thanks for reading!

* * *

The ceiling fans spun silent circles over Joe's head as he leaned back in his chair, trying to find some way to relax. Chris was outside smoking on the helipad. Barry loaded and unloaded his .357, occasionally peering through the cylinder or wiping the bright finish with a cleaning rag. Jill was rummaging through more reports, likely trying to find anything she had missed.

"Hey Brad," she called out, and Brad pulled his headphones off one ear.

"Yeah?"

"About where in their search pattern should Bravo have been when they called?"

Brad thought for a moment, staring at the map, tracing his finger over the other team's path. "Would have put them somewhere in D. Maybe in the forties?"

Jill got up and looked at Brad's map too.

"Weird. That's not far from that mansion Chris was talking about," she noticed.

"Yeah, you're right. What do you think he knows?"

Joe shrugged. "Hell if I know. Dude's been acting weird for a while now. Something is definitely up."

Brad sighed and shook his head. "Whatever it is, he seems to know a lot more about what's happening than we do. More than Wesker, even." Then he added in a quieter voice, "We should be out there right now. Wouldn't have taken me even half an hour to get us into that area."

Barry glanced over the divider that separated his and Chris' desks. "We're gonna get out there. Wesker will make sure of that."

"Yeah, but… when?"

"Soon."

Joe looked at his watch. Just a little past six. At the outside, they were looking at an hour and a half for Bravo's deadline. He was getting the sinking feeling that Irons wasn't going to let them leave a moment sooner. Along with the second preflight check they were going to have to do, that would put them in the mountains with only a half hour of light, tops. Not a great window by any means. If this turned into anything besides a minor mechanical failure, the STARS were in for a long night. Joe tried to stifle an overabundance of grim scenarios from running through his mind. What if the cannibal killers found Bravo and got the drop on them before Alpha showed up?

As the hours passed, Chris returned and helped work on contingency plans for when they would fly out. But there was still no sign of Wesker until just two minutes before Alpha was to head out. The captain, his face grim, came into the office and gave them the go ahead to get moving. Joe and Brad rushed through the pre-flight check, and Alpha was in the air.

The green and tan patchwork of fields rushed by hundreds of feet below, then a few minutes later the farmland gave way to thick forest. As the sun sank lower in the sky, dark shadows further obscured any bits of the forest floor peeking out through the leaves.

Joe elbowed Chris, who sat on the canvas seat next to him. "What's going on man? How the hell did you figure that the mansion had something to do with this?"

"I don't know for sure. Just a hunch. We don't know that the mansion had anything to do with Bravo dropping off the grid either," Chris called back over the throb of the helicopter's rotors.

"I suppose you might be right. But it seems like way too much of a coincidence. There something you aren't telling us?"

Chris looked out the open crew compartment door for a moment, then turned back towards Joe. "There is _something_ that happened not too long ago that may have pointed me towards my theory. I'll explain everything when we get back. Trust me, Joe."

Joe nodded, not entirely convinced but realizing that pushing any further would get him nowhere. "Alright."

He looked over to see Jill pointing out at the forest. "Look!"

Oily, black smoke rose in thick plumes from somewhere beneath the jagged tree tops. Brad began to angle the helicopter towards the dark column. Joe's stomach sank. He had seen smoke like that only once, from a crash during his time in the Navy. By the time emergency response arrived, the burning fuel had left little but charred skeletons of the crew. He could only hope that Bravo hadn't suffered a similar fate.

The downed helicopter was near the edge of a large clearing. Surprisingly other than the smoke rising from the fuselage, nothing else seemed to be amiss. It took Joe until their skids touched down and his boots hit the ground to realize just how horribly _wrong_ the whole scene was. "Where the hell _is_ everyone?"

Bravo was gone. Joe at the very least expected to see Ed and Enrico, the team's pilot and leader respectively, swearing at the old bird as they dismantled it piece by piece to find out what was wrong.

"Frost, Redfield," Wesker barked, even more tense than usual. "Check the helicopter."

Joe led the way with his shotgun shouldered and at the ready. Chris trailed a couple yards behind. Tall grass, gray-blue in the failing light, rustled and bent beneath their black boots as they snuck quickly forward. Joe's eyes darted between the helicopter and the treeline. If there was a hidden shooter, the entire team would be sitting ducks considering the lack of cover. He made it to the cockpit window and peered in, but could make out nothing unusual. After one more look around the clearing, seeing that Wesker and the others had fanned out with guns drawn and that Brad had lifted off to begin scanning the area with his searchlight, he moved around to one of the sliding side doors and gave the handle a tug.

The strong smell of blood hit Joe almost as hard as the shock of what was before him. Ed Dewey, or so he gathered by the few remaining identifiable bits, was spread across the floor of the crew cabin. Something had literally shredded the pilot. Joe recoiled in surprise, letting out a yelp.

Chris ran up, weapon at the ready. "Oh, Jesus."

"Looks like we were too late."

"Any sign of the others?"

Joe took a second look inside, struggling to hold back the bile rising in his throat. "Nothing I can see. Any tracks outside?"

"Yeah, some of the grass is trampled down heading northwest. Captain!"

Wesker jogged over, having a similar reaction to what had happened to Ed. Joe pointed out Bravo's trail, and Wesker called the rest of Alpha over. "Spread out, we're going to start sweeping that way. We've already got one man down, so be careful. If you see anything out of place, I want to know about it. Jill, contact Brad. Let him know what we're up to."

She nodded, pulling the radio from her belt.

"Alright people, let's move."

Joe took the right flank. He swept the light on his shotgun from side to side, making sure to keep pace without missing anything important. There was nothing out of place that he could see. But he began to notice as the chopper flew further away and its noise died down that beyond that and their crunching boot steps, there weren't any other sounds. Not so much as a chirping cricket. In the middle of the summer, there should have been plenty of noise – insects, owls, small mammals rustling around in the brush – but there was nothing.

Something glinted in the underbrush ten or so yards ahead. Joe squinted, trying to make out the object in the glow of his flashlight. He moved cautiously closer. It was an empty Beretta magazine, and as he picked it up he rubbed his thumb over the powder residue on the top edge. It was fresh. "Hey guys, I found something!"

Something moved to his right. He brought the shotgun to bear, but saw nothing. Joe could hear Jill running over to him from the other side. He started to turn to tell her what he had found when he saw movement again, but this time much closer. The creature leapt at him, letting out a vicious snarl. Joe backpedaled and squeezed the trigger. The gun roared, kicking back hard in his hands, but the shot went wide as two paws slammed into his chest and knocked him to the ground.

BOOM!

The loud report of a gunshot shattered the stillness, and Jill kicked it into high gear, flicking the safety on her sidearm as she sprinted towards Joe's position. Joe was on his back in the underbrush, rolling around with _something _on top of him. He began to scream incoherently, trying to fend off his attacker with nothing but his bare hands. Jill looked down the Beretta's sights, but didn't shoot for fear of hitting Joe.

More of the creatures leapt into the fight. Jill finally realized what they were as one let out a wailing howl then lunged down, ripping out Joe's throat and reducing him to a gurgling cry before he went limp. They were dogs. Maybe dobermans or German shepherds, but definitely not normal. Their thin skin had begun to slough off in patches, revealing greasy red muscle beneath. It almost looked like they were starting to decay. The odor beginning to burn her nostrils only seemed to confirm that possibility.

One took notice of her, turning its blood-smeared face her way as a ragged piece of flesh dropped from its mouth with a wet smack. Jill centered her sights on it and fired.

The hollow point tore into its chest, knocking it back. But in a flash it was back on its feet. It growled and charged her.

Two more rounds zipped past and brought it down for good. Chris ran up beside her, grabbing her by the arm. "Jill! Run!"

He didn't have to tell her twice. Chris took the lead, with Jill right on his tail. Leaves and branches slapped at them as their legs pumped for more speed. From the sounds of it, Wesker and Barry had run into some trouble of their own. She could hear Barry's revolver thundering over Wesker's less powerful 9mm. Chris veered towards the sound.

Jill could feel the dogs right on their heels. There was no way they could outrun them for very long, and she had the sinking feeling that they didn't have enough ammunition to shoot it out.

Brad's voice crackled over the radio. "Vickers to Alpha, is that gunfire I see down there!?"

She pulled the radio from her belt, depressing the transmit button. "This is Valentine! We need extraction now!"

Barry and Wesker were just ahead. "Chris! Over here!" called the STARS captain before firing past Jill and Chris. She heard a dog yelp in pain what sounded like a yard behind them.

She heard Brad respond. "Roger. I'll be at the clearing in thirty seconds."

All four STARS members ran, seeing the faintly moonlit clearing ahead. Almost there.

The Huey set down in the clearing, its sweeping searchlight casting strange shadows all around them. They burst from the edge of the forest. Brad waved at them emphatically to get aboard, his face twisting in horror as he saw what was chasing them.

More dogs charged into the field, closing on the helicopter from the other side. Brad saw them too late and sent the helicopter lurching up with a high, mechanical whine as the first leapt for the crew compartment. Instead it slammed into the skid and fell to the ground. The Huey buzzed over, disappearing back over the forest.

"Brad!" Barry shouted, but it was futile. Their ride was gone. They were stranded.

Then Jill had a thought. "Quick! The mansion!"

Wesker gave a curt nod and they were off, occasionally firing over their shoulders at the baying creatures. The mansion's façade loomed up through the trees. Lights shown through a few of the windows. _Isn't this place supposed to be abandoned?_

Oh well, didn't matter now. They rushed up the marble steps, and Barry tugged open the heavy, wooden door with a loud creak. Light spilled out onto the steps, and the STARS team ran inside, the door slamming shut behind them.


	3. Chapter 3

Jill looked around the mansion's main hall, still gasping for air and wanting desperately to rest but wary of what might be waiting for them in their potential safe haven. A thick, burgundy runner of carpet ran along the tile floor and up a massive staircase. Wooden pillars held up a balcony wrapping around the room, and a vaulted ceiling disappeared into the darkness high above a silver chandelier. Despite the light cast by the chandelier and numerous wall sconces, the room still seemed oppressively dark.

Wesker turned to Jill and Chris. "Where's Frost?"

Both STARS members just shook their heads. Everyone was silent for a brief moment.

The captain glanced away and sighed, then asked, "What's everyone's equipment situation?"

Everyone checked their gear. Barry had a decent amount of ammunition for his revolver. Chris had lost his flashlight, and he, Wesker, and Jill were all down to their last magazines. Their radio was either not transmitting or Brad had managed to make it out of range.

Then Barry wondered out loud, "What the hell did they use this place for anyway?"

With a shrug, Wesker replied, "Corporate retreats maybe? Definitely not your ordinary house. I'm a little bit concerned with who else might be here though. The place was supposed to have been abandoned back in the seventies, but it looks like someone definitely got here before us."

"Maybe Bravo managed to make it here," Jill suggested hopefully.

"Maybe. Regardless, we need to search around. I don't want any more unwelcome surprises tonight. Valentine, Redfield – I want you to see what you can make of the first floor. Barry and I will take the second. Be careful."

Chris gave Wesker a nod, then turned to Jill as the other two headed upstairs. "You good?" he asked quietly, concern showing on his face.

"Good as I'm gonna be, Chris. Let's get going."

"Alright."

They proceeded to a set of double doors to the left of the staircase. Chris trained his Beretta on the door as Jill moved into position, ready to open it. She turned the knob and the door opened with a groan. Chris lowered the gun.

Inside was a long dining room dominated by a huge, oak table. A thick layer of dust covered the few scattered place settings that remained. In the corner near the small fireplace, a grandfather clock loudly ticked its endless, metronomic rhythm into her skull. Jill proceeded cautiously forward, scanning the balcony above. One of the ornately carved handrails along the edge had been broken, and bits of wood scattered the floor beneath.

"This place must have cost a fortune," she mused.

Chris nodded. "Yeah. From the sounds of it, Spencer – the guy who had this place built – was practically drowning in old money. Descendant of some long-standing noble family or something."

She nodded, wanting to ask him why he knew so much on the subject, when she stopped abruptly. Her boots were inches from a sticky, red puddle spread across the checkered tile. Blood was smeared in the direction of the room's only other exit, right next to the clock. From the pattern of smudged boot prints, it appeared as though there had been quite a struggle. Jill held a finger up to her lips and pointed at the door. Chris nodded and moved up silently, taking his turn to get into position as Jill readied herself.

He silently swung the door open and Jill moved through quickly, sweeping both left and right. The hallway she found herself in appeared empty for now, but as she noted the eerie effect the peeling wallpaper created, an odd sound echoed down the hallway from the direction the blood smear continued, and a faint odor like compost. Jill waved Chris forward. The floorboards creaked beneath their feet despite their best efforts to be silent. Up ahead, the hallway veered to the right. She briefly caught a shadow play along the floor and the sound came again, a low moan that she tried to tell herself was just the old home settling. But something in her knew better.

Cautiously, slowly, she rounded the corner. What Jill saw turned her blood to ice.

A man in a tattered business suit hunched over a body on the ground – the body of Ken Sullivan, Bravo Team's point man. Blood had pooled around the man's feet, and Ken's eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling. The man moaned again, then Jill could hear wet crunching like the sound of him chewing on something.

"Freeze! Put your hands on your head!" she ordered, snapping her Beretta up and noting Chris had done the same.

The eating noises stopped. The man turned his head sluggishly, peering over his shoulder at the STARS.

At first Jill thought it was just Ken's blood dripping from his face, but quickly realized that the man's flesh, much like that of the dogs outside, had cracked and was rotting off in thick patches.

As much as she tried to reject the absurdity of it, one word stuck in her mind – _zombie._

"I said freeze!" Jill ordered again, but this time she could hear some of the confidence drain from her voice as the thing – cult member, zombie, crack addict – rose drunkenly to its feet. Chris and Jill both took an unintentional step back.

"Hey, she said freeze asshole!" Chris shouted.

Instead, the thing lurched forward, jaw dropping open in a hungry snarl.

Chris fired. Blood blossomed from the puckering hole in the man's chest, but it seemed about as effective as if Chris had shot him with a spitwad. Without so much as faltering, the man continued toward them.

Now they both fired, each pumping two more rounds into their target. The man staggered but didn't fall. Then Chris took a final shot, landing it squarely between the man's eyes.

The man let out a grunt, then crumpled to the floor. Jill and Chris kept their guns trained on the corpse. They weren't going to take any chances.

Chris ran up to Ken's body, knelt down, and checked for a pulse. As she expected, Chris turned to her and shook his head. He let out a sigh. "I guess we've got our answer for who, or what I guess, killed those people around Victory Lake."

"Yeah, but how many more of these things are out there?"

He shook his head. "I have no idea. This changes everything. Everything that Billy told me…"

Jill furrowed her brow in confusion. "Billy?"

"I guess now would be as good a time as any to explain."


	4. Chapter 4

One week earlier…

Rrrrrring!

Chris' eyes cracked open, taking a moment to focus on the blurry, red numbers illuminating the front of his alarm clock. 2:00.

Rrrrrring!

The phone rang again. Who could possibly be calling him at this time? He grunted groggily and reached for the handset, bringing it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Chris! Chris, is that you?" replied a borderline frantic voice.

"Yeah. Who the hell is this? It's two in the morning," Chris growled.

"It's Billy Rabitson. God, I'm glad I got ahold of you."

Chris was fully awake now. Billy had been one of his best friends in high school back in upstate New York, but the two hadn't talked more than a few times since. Between Billy's budding career in biochemistry and Chris' stint in the Air Force, there just hadn't been much time. One thing that Chris knew was that his friend didn't just get panicky for any reason. That and the fact that Billy was supposed to be charred to a crisp in a plane crash months ago was cause enough for alarm. Chris had even been at the funeral, seen the casket, the whole nine yards.

"Listen buddy, if you're pranking me…" he warned, brow furrowed, trying to determine if it was actually his friend or just some sicko with a twisted sense of humor.

The voice replied, "Dude, this isn't a prank. I'm about to be in a world of hurt if you don't help me."

Yep. Definitely Billy's voice. "Why don't you start with the part where you aren't dead. Because I seem to be a little behind the curve on that one."

"No time. I need to meet you, right now. Something huge has happened, something terrible, and now they're after me. I found out some stuff I shouldn't have."

Chris rubbed his temples and reached for the water bottle he kept by his bed, tucking the phone into his shoulder. "They? What kind of stuff?"

"Stuff that's going to blow that cannibal case you're working on out of the water."

What in the hell could Billy possibly know about _that_?

As if he had anticipated Chris' question, Billy continued, "You remember how I started working for the Umbrella Corporation last year?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, all I can say now is that the plane crash was staged by them, and I found evidence that makes it seem like they have something going on at the old Spencer mansion up in the Arklays that might link back to the case. Whatever it is, it's definitely illegal and definitely dangerous for me to know. But there isn't much time. How soon can you get to the old diner on the edge of town?"

"Emmy's? Twenty minutes, ten if I really push it." He took a swig of the slightly warm water, then started pulling on the rumpled pair of jeans he had been wearing the day before.

"Well, hurry. I don't think I have much time before they find me. Please, Chris. Hurry."

There was a click on the other end as Billy hung up. Chris stood and slipped on a pair of sneakers, then loaded his .45 and tucked it into the back of his pants. He rushed out the door and down a set of concrete steps to the parking lot, not wanting to let his friend down.

As Chris hopped into his car, he wondered how Umbrella could possibly have anything to do with the crazy murders going on as of late. Even beyond the apparent absurdity of a connection between the two, they hadn't so much as found a scrap of evidence pointing in that direction either. He floored the gas as he entered the main roadway, and the 400 horsepower engine roared as Chris was pushed back in the Mustang's seat. Luckily, as he expected, there were only a handful of cars out at this time of morning. Except for a couple bars, most businesses were closed. Their dark windows rushed past in a blur. He swerved to pass a slow-moving semi-truck then locked the brakes to make a screeching turn onto Crescent Street. Emmy's 24-Hour Diner was a short ways ahead.

Emmy's was a typical greasy spoon that seemed like it had been borrowed straight from the 1950s, usually playing host to at least a couple truckers in need of a coffee break, or farmers from the surrounding area getting some breakfast and looking to chew the fat before a long day of work. Multi-colored neon glared from signs in the windows, only adding to its retro feel. Over his short time living in Raccoon Chris had become a regular, and a few familiar, tired faces nodded a welcome as jangling bells announced his entrance. He looked around, but saw no sign of Billy. Checking his watch, he confirmed that he was right on time.

A pink-clad waitress, Elza if memory served, looked up from the table she was wiping off. "Oh, hey Chris," she greeted. "You're out later than usual."

He ran a hand over his face, hoping Billy was just late for whatever reason. "Yeah… I'm trying to find someone. I'm supposed to be meeting them right about now."

Elza nodded. "Well, there was someone here just a couple minutes ago, said that you would be showing up and if he left before you got here that I was to pass along a note. He seemed pretty nervous. Here, let me get the message for you."

She dashed off to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a small scrap of yellow paper folded in half. Chris quickly unfolded it.

Scribbled messily in pen was a drawing of a shovel.

"Did he say what it means?"

Elza shook her head. "No, just that you were the only one who'd figure it out."

Chris puzzled over it for a moment. _What's something only he and I would know?_

Then it hit him. "Thanks Elza. I'll see you later." He dashed for the door.

"Alright," she said, sounding a little confused. "Bye."

The Mustang screeched out of its parking spot, tearing back onto the road.

When Chris and Billy had been kids, they both had been really into the idea of being secret agents. Figuring they needed a code, Billy had suggested that they use small, simple drawings – hieroglyphs, he had called them - to represent different things and places. The shovel had represented the maintenance shed at the nearby city park.

Chris headed north, hoping to make it to Raccoon Park in time.

Adrenaline was now surging through his veins, and when he got there, he practically flung himself out of the car and began sprinting for the run-down shed. The far-too-narrow beam of his flashlight swept erratically across the base of the treeline. Drawing up on the shed, he pulled out the .45 and racked a round into the chamber as quietly as he could manage. The door was already slightly ajar, and he gently shouldered it open, cautiously moving in as he kept the light and gun raised.

No one else was there, but the haphazardly scattered tools and scuff marks in the dust on the floor told Chris there had been a struggle. He briefly contemplated calling for backup, but what would he tell them? His friend was back from the dead, Umbrella was covering up some major secret, and said friend had just disappeared again without a trace – and the only evidence he had was a drawing of a shovel on some scrap paper and a messy park maintenance shed? At best he'd just get laughed at and told he needed a vacation. No, he was definitely on his own for this one.

Then something caught his eye. The corner of a yellow folder stuck out from underneath a shelf. Hoping it may be a clue as to what Billy was hoping to tell him, Chris grabbed it and carefully undid the string holding it shut.

Inside was a thick stack of papers and half a dozen compact disks inside plastic sheaths. Atop the documents was a smaller envelope, containing a hand-written note and what Chris recognized as Billy's class ring. The note read:

Chris,

If you're reading this, they've probably found me. In fact, I'm probably dead, so don't bother looking for me any more. God I must sound like a paranoid freak. The data I've left in this folder is all I managed to get from Umbrella's servers. Use it wisely. Don't turn it over to the police, or anyone, they'll just make it disappear. I'm sorry to dump all this on you right now, and that we didn't get a chance to talk again. It's been too long, and now I'm afraid too late. I wish you luck, and keep yourself safe. The less people who know you have this the better.

Your friend, Billy


	5. Chapter 5

Chris felt shell-shocked. He could see it on Jill's face too, as he finished explaining how over the past couple weeks he had secretly been gathering what little information he could to compliment what Billy had left in that envelope.

She nodded slowly, still staring at the dead zombie (as they had mutually decided to call it) on the ground. "I guess that explains why you haven't been yourself lately."

"Yeah, no kidding."

Neither of them had bothered to check Ken for a pulse. It was pretty obvious he wasn't alive at this point. The zombie had eviscerated him, bits of Ken's guts hanging out of the ragged wound stretching across his midsection.

Jill looked up at Chris. "You think Barry and Wesker heard the gunfire?"

"They might have. But we have no idea how thick these walls are."

"True…" she concurred, pausing for a moment in thought. "Maybe one of us should head back, just to check if they're coming to investigate."

Reluctantly, Chris agreed. Honestly, he wanted someone covering his back given the circumstances, but Jill had a fair point. They didn't need both groups of STARS members chasing each other around the mansion. That, and it would be good to let the other two know what they were up against.

Jill moved toward the door they had come from. "If neither of them show up in a couple minutes, I'll be right back."

"Alright. I'll check just outside the other doors," Chris said, gesturing at the three other doors along the short length of the hall "make sure there's nothing else lurking around. I'm not feeling like we need any more surprises tonight."

She looked at him, concern on her face, and briefly glanced at Ken's body again. "Be careful Chris."

Chris flashed her a lopsided grin, trying to ease her mind. "Don't you worry about me."

Jill departed, the door closing quietly behind her with a soft _snick._

Chris did a quick mental inventory as he prepared to see what was behind door number one, as it were. Seven hollow point rounds left in his mag, one in the chamber. Not much if he got into a situation, but it would have to do. He also still had his combat knife strapped to his vest, but the thought of having to use it didn't sit well with him. He had watched enough late-night horror movies to know that, if these zombies were anything like their Hollywood counterparts, a single bite or scratch might mean certain death.

_Yeah, and in every one of those movies, splitting up is bad news too. _Well, too late for that now. Jill was already gone, and he needed to make sure the scene was secured, at least temporarily. He eased the narrow, wooden door open with one hand, trigger finger poised to do its job should another zombie try and make him its midnight snack.

Ahead of Chris was another hallway, similarly decorated to the one he had just stepped out of, branching off to his right. There was a dull thump, and Chris moved away from the door. It swung closed and he immediately realized he had made a stupid mistake as he heard what sounded like some sort of deadbolt latch into place. He immediately spun and tried the knob. It wouldn't budge, no matter how hard he strained.

Another thump, closer this time. Another zombie? He did a second one-eighty and lined the Beretta's sights up with the corner at roughly torso height. The slouched figure of another of the mansion's ghoulish occupants shambled around the corner, slowly turning toward Chris. A soft moan escaped its withered lips roughly the same time as the putrid smell of its decay washed over Chris, making him nauseous. The rotting man stiffly reached its arms out and moaned again, louder and more urgently this time. _Aim for the head,_ Chris thought, remembering the shots wasted a minute or so ago. His finger tightened on the trigger and he felt its crisp release as the gun went off, a single round striking the zombie between the cataract-white eyes. Blood and mushy brain blew out the back of the zombie's skull, covering the wall in a gruesome spray. It collapsed like a ragdoll to the floorboards.

He kept the gun trained on its pathetic form a second longer before trying the door again. No luck. _Shit._

There was no sign of Barry or the STARS captain. Jill had just had enough time to confirm that there was no one in the elegant main hall when another gunshot rang out, muffled by the mansion. But Jill thought she knew exactly where it had come from.

She backtracked a second time through the dining room, past the ticking clock, this time at a sprint. Her boots clomped loudly on the tile. Jill burst into the hallway, but she was the only one there.

"Chris?" she called, hoping he was okay, and near enough to hear her.

"Jill!" she heard Chris shout from behind the first door.

"What happened? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, but I'm stuck on this side. Door won't open, some kind of automatic lock or something. Try your side."

Her stomach sank as she tried to turn the knob to no avail. "Sorry Chris, same story over here." This day was going from bad to considerably worse. From the looks of the lock, even if she had brought her lockpick set she probably wouldn't have fared much better.

"Damn. Looks like I'm gonna have to find another way around."

"Okay. I'm going to see if I can't find a way around, or a key to get through the lock."

"Sounds good," he called back. "Jill, watch your back out there. There might be other traps too."

She hadn't thought of that. The thought of getting stuck in this place by some old booby trap made her panic a little, but she quickly reigned in her fear. "You watch yours too. Don't worry, we're gonna get out of here together."

There was a long pause, then he replied, "I certainly hope so."


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thanks for everyone who has gotten this far! Finally getting a decent amount of this story done from rough draft, so hopefully everything continues as it has recently. Reviews are always appreciated, as I'm always looking to improve. Enjoy!

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Everything ahead was quiet. Chris decided to check the next couple rooms, still silently cursing himself for getting separated from Jill.

_There's no way you could have known the door was going to lock,_ he reminded himself, _and besides, Jill can handle herself. _It may have been true, but didn't make him feel much better.

The first room was tiny and occupied only by a bust of a tiger with a blue gem for one eye. Spencer sure had a strange interior decorator. Seeing nothing of use, Chris moved across the hall to the next room, the entire time keeping an eye on the corpse at the end of the hall.

Inside he found a small bedroom, maybe for one of the staff. In one corner was a sloppily made bed with stained sheets, but stained with what Chris refused to guess. On the other side was a desk covered in books, and a small closet. A quick peek into the closet revealed exactly what he expected to find – clothing. No zombies, thank god.

Turning around, one book caught his eye. A thin hardcover with no apparent title sat in a disturbed area of the thick dust coating the desk. Guessing it had been moved recently, Chris curiously picked it up, feeling the worn leather before opening to where a ribbon had marked its pages. It was a journal, the words scrawled in black ink on the thick paper. Chris began to read.

_May 9, 1998_

_Played poker tonight with Scott and Alex from security, and Steve from research. Steve was the big winner, but I think he was cheating. Scumbag._

Chris chuckled a little at that, skimming over more mundane details of the writer's day before getting to the next date.

_May 10, 1998_

_One of the higher-ups assigned me to take care of a new experiment. It looks like a skinned gorilla. Feeding instructions were to give it live animals. When I threw in a pig, the creature seemed to play with it… tearing off the pig's legs and pulling out the guts before it actually started eating._

An experiment? Did that mean that the zombies were also some sort of experiment, maybe gone horribly wrong? And whatever this gorilla creature was, it sounded like something he would rather not run into. He kept reading, now even more interested. There was definitely more to this mansion than met the eye.

_May 11, 1998_

_At around 5 AM, Scott woke me up. Scared the shit out of me, too. He was wearing one of the "space suits," the hazmat uniforms we have in case of a biological spill. He had another and handed it to me, telling me to put it on. Said there'd been an accident in the basement lab. I just knew something like this would happen. Those jackasses in Research never sleep, even at night._

_May 12, 1998_

_I've been wearing this damn space suit since yesterday. My skin's getting grimy and feels itchy all over. The goddamn dogs have been looking at me funny, so I decided not to feed them today. Screw 'em._

_May 13, 1998_

_Went to the infirmary because my back is all itchy and swollen. They put a big bandage on it and told me I didn't need to wear the suit anymore. All I wanna do is sleep._

_May 14, 1998_

_Found another blister on my foot this morning. I ended up dragging my foot all the way to the dogs' pen. They were quiet all day, which is weird. Took me a while to realize some of them had escaped. If anybody finds out, I'll have my ass handed to me._

The dogs in the woods, perhaps? They had all appeared to be the same breed, but Chris still wasn't certain. Regardless, it was looking more and more like this accident in the basement labs the writer had mentioned may have caused all of this somehow. Were these the same secret Umbrella Corporation labs that appeared in Billy's documents?

_May 16, 1998_

_The company has ordered that no one leave the facility, and they disconnected all the payphones. Rumor's going around that a researcher who tried to escape the estate last night was shot. I've been confined to bed. My entire body now feels itchy, and I'm sweating all the time and feel feverish. I scratched the welling on my arm and the skin just came right off. It wasn't until then that I noticed the rotten smell coming from myself, and when I realized it was making me hungry, I got violently sick. Scott brought me a bucket and some more water, but I can't keep the water down anymore._

The penmanship had become extremely bad, unevenly spaced words written at a slant across the paper. Chris had to concentrate to make out the last few lines. There was no date. It just read:

_Fever gone but itchy scratch hungry and eat doggie food itchy itchy scott came ugly face so killed him itchy tasty._

The writing trailed off into nonsense and scribbles, then abruptly ended. All the pages after were blank. Some of what he read made sense, too much sense. All this took place not terribly long before the murders started. Given the distance of the mansion to Raccoon City, the timeframe could easily be feasible.

Chris then shuddered at one thought.

If this was some disease or toxin that was making these people act like the living dead, causing the flesh to rot right off their bones and making them kill and eat people, how was it spread? Was it just by contact, like the movies, or was it airborne? Were all the surviving STARS members already infected, just walking time bombs waiting to go crazy?

Chris realized he couldn't entertain those thoughts, at least not until he knew more. If they were infected or whatever this was, it wouldn't do any good worrying about it. But Chris knew, as his stomach sank, escape wasn't going to be so simple anymore. They would have to make their way down to this lab the journal had told of and find out more about what they had been researching to make sure that if they did get back to town, they wouldn't end up spreading some zombie plague.

He knew one thing for certain as he tucked the journal into his vest and headed back out to continue his search. This night had just gotten a lot longer.


	7. Chapter 7

Jill took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Chris would be fine on his own, or so she hoped. She just had to pull herself together. The other two doors nearby were locked, so she proceeded back along her path a third time. Passing by Ken once again, she decided to check him for ammo or anything else of use. The idea still seemed morbid, but he would have understood given the circumstances.

Skirting around the motionless zombie on the floor, she stayed as far away from it as possible. Jill was pretty sure it was dead, but it still made her skin crawl. She knelt beside Ken's body and held her breath to keep out the acrid smell of his ruptured bowels. Gummy, partially congealed blood smeared on her hands as she rummaged through the pockets of Ken's vest, and she tried not to cringe as she pulled out two fully loaded spare mags for her Beretta and the simple lockpick set she had leant to him months back. That could very well come in handy. Satisfied with what she had found, Jill silently thanked her deceased teammate and returned to the main hall.

Thinking her best bet would be to continue on with the first floor in hopes that both sides met up somewhere, Jill chose the door across from the dining room. It opened up to reveal a dark room that was set up almost like some tiny art gallery. Large, wood-framed paintings hung on the walls and a large statue of a classical Greek woman holding a large pitcher sat in the center, nearly touching the ceiling. At the other end of the room was another door, jammed open by a small chest. Jill moved past the statue, keeping her gun trained on the opening, and climbed over the chest into a long, L-shaped hallway. Windows ran the length of the wall to her right, and on the left were a series of display cases containing everything from Native American artifacts to bleached skeletal remains. She wondered about the latter, but decided that investigation would have to wait for another time.

She could see nothing but darkness beyond the windows, and noting nothing immediately hostile, proceeded. Jill had just rounded the corner when she heard glass shatter behind her. Nerves already shot, she spun just in time to see a second dark shape come crashing through another, closer window, and realized with dread that the dogs that had chased them through the woods and killed Joseph were now inside. Both of them bayed loudly and began galloping unevenly down the hall at her, claws clattering against the floor in a strange rhythm, bloody jaws hanging open to reveal their sharp, glistening teeth.

Jill opened fire, her first shot going wide but the second and third striking the hellhounds as the Beretta jumped lightly in her hands. The one she hit stumbled, but then regained its footing and kept coming. Now in an adrenaline-fueled panic, she kept firing at both of them, the last one twitching in a death spasm as her magazine ran empty and both dogs lay in an expanding pool of their own blood. Fearing more of the freakish canines might come flying in to join the other two, Jill dropped the empty magazine and clumsily slapped in another while running for the end of the hallway, slamming the door behind her as she practically leapt into yet another corridor.

A few lights on the walls illuminated the striped, green wallpaper and darkly patterned carpet, but much to her relief there was no sign of the walking dead as far as she could see. She was alone, which considering the most likely alternative, was fine by her.

Once she had caught her breath, she checked the nearest doors. Behind the first was a plain bathroom that looked like it was straight out of the 1960s. Another led outside and she quickly closed it, not wanting to have to deal with the dogs again.

As she opened the third, a smell like week-old shit assaulted her nose, and Jill realized that was exactly what it was when she looked inside. The floor was littered with feathers and splattered with bird feces.

Near the ceiling was the source. A dozen or so crows – maybe ravens, they were huge – roosted on a rail that ran the perimeter of the room, moving and fluttering anxiously back and forth, staring at her curiously. One cocked its head, waddling a few steps sideways along the rail towards her. _Why the hell are they in here? _she wondered. The hungry look in their black eyes made Jill uneasy, but she moved into the strange gallery room anyway.

There was a wall set up in the center of the room, acting as some sort of divider. On either side were a set of painted portraits, set in thick, heavy frames. She moved in towards one that depicted a sallow looking man with graying hair and a beard, noting that the painting seemed to be set in the Victorian era based on the tailcoat he wore and how the background was furnished. Beneath it was what looked like a light switch, but why it was there she could only guess. There wasn't any track lighting, and there were light switches near the door too. She looked around, seeing a similar switch under all of the portraits. Maybe there was something more here than immediately met the eye…

A single painting of white-clad angels flying up through the clouds stood out at the end of the room. She practically tiptoed towards it, still eyeing the out-of-place birds with suspicion. _When was the last time anyone fed them?_

Attached to the frame was a thin, brass plaque that read cryptically, "From Cradle to Grave." Deciding that the switches meant something, she flipped the one beneath the angel painting.

A loud, electric snap crackled through the air, and the crows launched off of their perch in an explosion of squawks and angry flapping, descending towards Jill. Letting out a yelp of surprise, she beat a hasty retreat, trying to fend off her feathery attackers with her gloved hands. One found purchase on her head, its talons digging into her scalp. She flailed at it and it let go with a startled _caw, _ripping out some of her hair in the process. Jill tumbled into the hallway, managing to kick the door shut behind her before any birds could follow.

_Okay, wrong move, _Jill thought as she regained her composure, gasping at the musty air. She certainly wasn't having any luck with animals today. But now she had an idea for why the crows were there. Unless the owner of the mansion was a complete asshole, which she wasn't totally ready to discount, they had to be guarding something. But what? _Switches, portraits, From Cradle to Grave, it has to be some sort of puzzle._ Then the answer hit her, and she almost felt dumb for not realizing it sooner.

The portraits were all of different stages of life, from a smiling infant swaddled in his bed to an open coffin surrounded by mourners. From cradle to grave.

Putting an ear up to the door, it sounded like the crows had calmed down. She carefully eased the door open, confirming that the crows had returned to their rail, and stepped back into the gallery. Jill found the picture of the infant. Her shoulders tensed as she flicked the switch, expecting another attack, but the birds remained relatively silent. _One down…_

She studied them all, then moved from one to the next, hitting switches as she went; child, young man, and so on until only one switch was left. Jill flicked it and prepared to run.

There was a mechanical sound, then the angel painting fell from the wall, hitting the floor with a loud thump. Where it had been was a compartment inset in the wall, containing a bronze medallion of some sort. A stylized star was engraved on both sides. Realizing it must have some significance, Jill placed it in one of her vest's pouches for safe keeping. Chris had been right about there being more traps. If she was going to survive long enough to escape this place, she was going to have to be on her toes the whole time.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Hey y'all, just wanted to say thanks again for reading and any reviews are appreciated. Hopefully I'll be getting a lot more of this story up soon

* * *

One of the infected crawled at a pathetic pace across the blood-stained floor towards Wesker, dragging its spilt intestines behind like a grotesque mop, one crusty hand outstretched towards the STARS Captain. He recognized it as having been Cooke, one of the paper pushers from the administrative department and a royal dick, if memory served. Cooke let out a pitiful, longing moan, and some sort of dark liquid bubbled at the corners of his open mouth.

Everything seemed to be falling apart. Bravo team's chopper going down had immeasurably screwed up Wesker's well laid plans, and his night had just gotten worse from there. Chief Irons, also on the Umbrella Corporation's payroll, had delayed their search for Bravo Team at the orders of the corporation. Brad had flown off and left the Alphas stranded. Ed and Joe, and who knew how many others by now, were dead. And arguably most detrimental to his plans, Chris seemed to know far more than he should have.

_At least we actually made it to Spencer's estate,_ he reminded himself in an attempt to think positively. But that was only a small comfort. The layout of the labs below he knew like the back of his hand, but the mansion – that was another story. He would still have to find three of the four keys to open the route to the lab – hexagonal, bronze emblems engraved with symbols of the sun, moon, stars, and wind. By sheer luck, Wesker had found the sun emblem on the carpet in the second floor library, he could only assume dropped by the dead scientist next to it. Then the elevator down to the actual facility could only be activated with another pair of medallions, this time depicting an eagle and a wolf. Oswell Spencer, Umbrella's only surviving founder, had cleverly hidden them behind deadly puzzles of which Wesker had been unable to divulge much information. _The old man was a paranoid nut, that's for sure. I guess he had good enough reason, all things considered. _Along with finding all of these pieces without being crushed, skewered, eaten, or any other number of unpleasant deaths, he had to somehow evade the rest of the STARS long enough to gather what he had come for and find a way out undetected.

But this was likely the only chance he would have. The plan must go on, somehow.

An idea suddenly occurred to Wesker, and he couldn't believe it had taken him so long to realize that the solution was right in front of him, had been all along. He couldn't help a slight smile as he lifted his pistol, took aim, and fired into Cooke's wrinkled, decaying head. Not everything was lost. Not yet.


	9. Chapter 9

_Shit. I really screwed the pooch on this one. _He had cut and ran right when his team needed him the most. One moment longer and Alpha Team wouldn't be stranded in the Arklay Forest, with god-knows-what nipping at their heels. But if Brad had waited any longer, he would have been toast.

Brad forced the Huey into another banking turn over the jagged treetops, hoping to catch a glimpse of his teammates through the dense foliage. Just behind him was the looming estate, a sprawling complex that covered far more ground than Chris' maps had indicated. When Brad had passed over it the first time, he even noted a helipad between the main building's rear face and what looked like a large, heavily landscaped garden or cemetery. There was also some sort of outbuilding, maybe serving as a guest house or the like.

He keyed his mic again, hoping that maybe this time they would hear him on their radios. "Vickers to Alpha, Vickers to Alpha. Do you copy?" No one responded. In fact, no one was responding back at the station either. He cursed again. If only there was some way to signal Alpha. Working under the logical assumption that they had made it to the estate, Brad could just pick them up on the helipad. That is, if he didn't run out of fuel first. At the absolute maximum, there were two and a half hours of fuel left in the old bird before he would have to turn around, less if he kept flying as aggressively as he had.

_You're assuming any of them are still alive. Maybe they didn't even make it past the clearing, _a small voice in the back of his mind chimed in. No, he told himself, they have to have made it. Either way, he wasn't giving up on his team because of odds. Especially not since their predicament was entirely his fault.

It wasn't long before Chris decided that Spencer's affinity for odd decorations was easily matched by an obscene love of hallways. The particular one Chris found himself in had a wood floor that groaned and squeaked with each step, making him continually grimace as he gave up trying to tiptoe in combat boots. Instead he moved slowly, listening for anything unusual over the painfully loud sounds of his own progress.

The hall widened into a room dominated by a surprisingly plain set of stairs. Before moving up to the second floor, Chris deemed it wise to check the door next to the stairs, hoping to find anything of use. Maybe there would be more notes on this virus of Umbrella's, or even better, he thought, a pack of smokes. Chris had left his behind, and some nicotine would help steady his nerves against the eerie atmosphere of the mansion. The knob turned smoothly, and the door came unlatched with a soft _snick._ Chris eased it open.

There was an angry shout from inside the room and something heavy slammed down into Chris' shoulder. He reeled back in surprise and pain, letting out a yelp before his boot caught something and he landed on his ass. Chris brought his Beretta to bear but stopped himself when he saw who stood over him, holding a bedpost like a club. It was Rebecca, Bravo Team's medic.

Rebecca Chambers had heard the footsteps slowly approaching from outside the small study. Thinking that another ghoul must have detected her, she froze immediately, hoping it was just wandering aimlessly and would soon go away. But she could hear it, now right outside the door. Rebecca's grip tightened on the makeshift club she had "borrowed" from another room when her Beretta had run out of ammo. She didn't know if they could open doors, but she wasn't taking any chances. The doorknob moved, and she raised the club to fend off the impending attack.

The door swung slowly, revealing a tall figure blocking her exit. Adrenaline now pumping through her veins, she charged with the best battle cry she could muster and swung with all her might. The club missed the ghoul's head, where Rebecca had aimed, but nonetheless stunned her attacker, knocking him back a few steps before he clumsily toppled over backwards. Rebecca raised the club to finish the job when she realized the man was not in fact a ghoul, and was wearing the green and black uniform of a STARS member. Her adrenaline-fueled rage quickly faded to embarrassment as she recognized Chris Redfield, Alpha's point man, his wide eyes staring back at her in bewilderment.

"Hell of a swing," he managed to joke shakily as she scrambled to help him up.

"Oh! Oh my god, I'm so sorry! I thought you were one of them!" Rebecca exclaimed, noting internally that she had almost bashed in the skull of the only friendly person she had seen since making it to this strange place.

Chris straightened himself out, reholstering his gun. "It's okay. I'm a little jumpy too. How did you get here?"

They closed themselves in the room before Bravo's medic recounted how the helicopter had begun to lose power, forcing Ed to set it down quickly. Then she explained how they had been chased from their downed helicopter by a pack of wild dogs, and how she and Enrico had made it to the mansion, hopping a wrought-iron fence before managing to force open one of the side doors. She and Enrico had been separated when a group of the mansion's undead residents burst into a hallway between them, forcing them in different directions.

"And Chris, I found out what's wrong with the people here. There's an underground lab where they make viral weapons, and you'll never guess who owns it."

"The Umbrella Corporation," he stated matter-of-factly, catching Rebecca off guard.

"How did you know?"

"Educated guess. Did you find out anything else about what they're doing here?" he asked.

"Boy, did I ever," Rebecca replied enthusiastically. She grabbed a thick, blue folder from a bookshelf full of similar folders, slapping it down on the desk next to them. "This folder has just about everything on the virus. They call it the T-Virus. It's a viral strain similar to hemorrhagic fever that is capable of cross-species transmission and has a nearly one-hundred percent infection rate, which is almost unheard of! It's rather amazing, actually. The sequence of the Three-UTR is entirely different from any other RNA I've seen before. It must have been developed from the BDBV strain, and shows signs that they used some bits and pieces from a picornavirus serotype, or an enterovirus. Either way, they would have had to-"

Chris held up a hand, looking a little amused and very confused. "You lost me at the thing about sequencing."

_Dammit_, she thought, _I shouldn't have gone off on a tangent. Now he's gonna think I'm some kind of virus nerd._ "Sorry, I've just never seen something so heavily engineered before. They have to have been working on this for decades."

"You said something about how it's transmitted?"

She sighed. "Yeah. Looks like it can be aerosolized, but it isn't designed for that. Mostly it's going to be by contact – bites, scratches, that sort of thing."

He seemed relieved. After a pause, he inquired, "How do you know all that stuff about viruses?"

"I didn't originally plan to be an EMT or anything like that. I was going to get a degree in virology, but couldn't afford the schooling. Spent a lot of time at the library instead, hoping to get there eventually."

He raised an eyebrow, then grinned. "Good work. C'mon, we've got to get going. Most of Alpha Team made it, and are somewhere around here. Jill and I got separated a while ago, and Barry and Wesker are supposed to be checking out the second floor. You still have your sidearm?"

"Yeah, but both my magazines are empty."

"And I'm down to my last seven rounds. Guess we'll just have to be careful."

They headed out and started up the stairs, Rebecca now a little more confident that she had someone else with her. It was her first job as part of the STARS teams, and it was good to have one of the more experienced members leading the way instead of fumbling along by herself. _Maybe we _will _make it out of here alive._


End file.
